


Taming of the Wolf

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, So obviously more characters will be added., This might be FenHawke eventually., WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:17:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2614784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris was a name as fitting as any, though he was loathe to admit it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Leto

_“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”_

**_-William Shakespeare_ **

He was aware only of the constant drip drip dripping of the water onto the floor, an irritation that refused to abate with time and allow him to return to blissful slumber. Sleep, he thought as he heard the sound of heavy boot falls from down the corridor, was a fleeting concept anyway, one that had no place in his life these days.

_You take what you can get, Leto._

What he could get, it appeared, was a few hours of sleep and muscles that ached from days of hard work. It wasn’t any different from usual, of course, except the pain meant something this time.

This pain was worth every second.

Leto swung his legs over the side of the cot as he waited for the guards to approach, to usher him out into the open for daily training. Today was his last match and he had heard whispers in the training halls that the opponent that had been prepared for him was Qunari, a Vashoth who had abandoned the Qun to fight in the arena.

He wondered how likely it was that this was true, and though he had no way of knowing, he did know that the Senator who had organized this event was one who enjoyed bloodsport. If it would make a good show…

Well, Leto had to prepare for the worst.

He wasn’t the only contender remaining, but he was the favorite, perhaps because he was the underdog. The people who watched, free men and women, loved the story of an underdog; a scrapper who survived by willpower and raw skill alone, with a little bit of good fortune to carry him through to the end.

He would persevere.

“Up and ready to go already, are you, elf?”

The voice of the guard echoed off the walls and Fenris looked up into his face without meeting his eyes. He recalled the words of his mother, remembered them as she had whispered to him in his boyhood --

_“Never meet a human’s eyes, Leto. They do not think of you as a person, only as property, and you will feel their wrath if you dare to meet them on equal footing.”_

Well, his sister would not fear that reality, he thought as he stood, nodding grimly once in response. Vanaria would grow up knowing she was free, just as human children were. She would grow up knowing she was a person, not an object, and Leto would pay any price to ensure that.

No matter what that price entailed.

To be honest, the words of Senator Danarius had been incredibly vague, though he assumed Master Augustus knew more than he did. He remembered when it had still been summer and Augustus had told those in his holdings that he planned to hold a competition for the honor of competing in Senator Danarius’ games, games for which the victor would be granted a single boon in exchange for their services.

He doubted his Master would be too pleased at losing two of his female slaves, but at the same time, the honor of having a male slave given to Senator Danarius for the purpose of some great purpose (“Beyond that which a mere slave had never experienced before.”) would show him to be a man of good stock. Master Augustus would not have volunteered one of his slaves did he not get something out of the bargain.

All Magisters did nothing without the chance of gain.

“Well then, let’s go,” the guard beckoned toward Leto, who bowed his head and followed him from the cell. “Time to eat up and get you ready for your match today. Don’t know if you heard but your last competitor was eliminated. Killed by their opponent. If you can win your match, you’ll be the victor of the whole damn thing.”

He could feel the guardsman’s eyes bore into him, and shock must have registered vaguely on his face, because the man laughed.

“Don’t look so shocked. I’ve seen you fight, slave. You’d fetch a fine price on the market, you know,” Leto tried not to seethe at the words, at least not outwardly, though the rage seeped into his blood, churned red-hot in his gut. “If you win… Well, you’ll never go hungry again.”

Leto would rather be hungry a thousand times over than ever sell his dignity.

His mother had been born a slave, but his father had not. He’d been brought from Rivani, and his mother had been Dalish, or so Leto had been told. A proud man, his father had been, and Leto looked like him, strong and unrelenting, tall, for an elf, with eyes that burned like green flame.

Sometimes he could remember his father who had never been suited for slavery.

Mother said you could always tell the ones who were born free because they didn’t know how to survive.

“Just one more thing before I hand you over, elf,” the guard stopped him with a heavy hand upon his back just before he walked toward the doors to the mess hall, a hall that had grown progressively more empty as the weeks passed. “Your opponent? He really is one of the Tal-Vashoth, so be on your guard.”

Leto thanked the Maker for small favors, regardless of the lips they came from.

Passing through the doors at the end of the hall, Leto found the cavernous room utterly abandoned, save for a single bowl of what he could only assume was cold porridge on one of the long tables. He felt more alone in that moment than he had in a very long time, his footfalls echoing as he padded across the cobbles, barefoot as usual.

He ate in silence, though it was a deafening silence, the sort where every shift of cloth and scrape of utensil was magnified a thousand times its normal volume. Leto hated it, he hated being alone like this knowing that the people who had once occupied this hall and chattered excitedly about the prospects the future offered were now a pile of bodies somewhere, to be disposed of by the Magisters.

The porridge, as tasteless as it was, sat in his stomach like a stone by the time the doors at the end of the hall grated open again and he was greeted by a delegation of individuals, a few of whom he recognized. One of them, a man in fine robes with a full head and face of grey hair and eyes as white as a stormy sky, looked him over in a way that made him feel more like a painting than a person.

_Senator Danarius._

“Here he is,” the man said with a pleasant smile, his voice warm in a way that sent ice down Leto’s spine; dangerous, this man was… dangerous. Leto’s every instinct screamed it, and he tried to unclench his jaw and force himself to look a bit less like an animal backed into a corner. “Leto, the wolf of the coliseum.”

Those eyes slid over him again, slicing into him with blade-sharp precision, estimating the kind of man he was in an instant.

“I wish you luck,” Senator Danarius said with another smile, running his hand through his beard almost contemplatively. “You have potential, more than you could ever dream. If you should succeed in this final task, I will be sure you are rewarded for your efforts.”

Leto knew he would be expected to say something in this situation, one did not simply ignore a Magister, so he bowed his head low and took a breath before speaking, “I am grateful for the opportunity, Milord.”

The laugh, deep and booming, made Leto feel hollow.

“Wise, for a slave,” Danarius said, motioning for one of his entourage to step forward. “You will use this blade in the upcoming battle. It will show you have my favor.”

Leto stood straight when he heard the sound of cloth falling to the floor, his eyes widening at the sight of a wicked looking claymore nearly as long as he was tall. He had trained in all sorts of weapons but this felt like a handicap, a very heavy, ornate handicap that he could not refuse.

For a moment, his eyes flickered to that face, and he found in that smile venom, a challenge-- this was part of the test.

It was do or die.

_You must do it for mother. For Vanaria._

Reaching out, Leto took the blade.

 

***

 

The crowd cheered, roaring in Leto’s ears, cheering for his victory as the Tal-Vashoth lay bleeding at his feet. He stood, victorious, over his fallen foe, aware of the eyes of the entire crowd in front of him, no longer aware of anything but their noise, the tang of blood in his mouth and the feeling of it on his skin, cooling quickly.

In his hand was the claymore, not as heavy a burden as it had seemed when he had walked into the arena with it strapped on his back. Quickly he had adapted, learned how to let it carry his weight into its swings without losing control of it. He’d had no choice but to learn, because in that moment it was do or die, and dying had never been an option.

Not for Leto.

They had called for blood, when he had felled the Qunari, the ox-man kneeled before him, shoulders heaving, looking up at him with charcoal black eyes. He knew that they would call for blood, but he also knew that death would be a mercy for his opponent. Living with the shame would be too much, especially for someone as proud as Qunari.

Leto thought he understood.

He wasn’t aware when the crowd stilled, nor did he pay attention to Senator Danarius’ words as he addressed the crowd ( _Master_ , a voice in his mind said, _he’s your Master now, Leto._ ). There wasn’t much he paid attention to until he was being lead away from the arena, unbound, and shoved unceremoniously into a cold bath by an attendant after being ruthlessly stripped.

“You will redress and wait for further orders,” Leto was told by the stern-faced man, who placed newly laundered clothes for him on a bench nearby.

They were very fine clothes, for a slave, which is when Leto grew suspicious that he was the prize for the combat games that Senator Danarius had held. The boon… The boon was just a lure, a lure designed to attract slaves.

Strong slaves.

Prideful slaves.

Slaves like him.

Even if that were the case, there was no way out of it now, and he would rather suffer terribly than lose this chance to give his mother and Varania a future beyond the walls of Augustus’ manor. Even if they had to live far below the towers on the streets of Mithranous, it was better than living in slavery, and it was better than being divided by a master who decided he no longer wanted a little child as a slave.

For a long time, Leto sat alone with his thoughts, stripped of his blade, given new clothing with Master Danarius crest upon its back, sitting on a wooden bench and starting at his weathered hands. Slave’s hands, he thought, long fingered and strong, but lean and cautious. The work he had done with him, having never known freedom, had never been for himself.

It had been to survive.

His thoughts were interrupted by footfalls, and his eyes were drawn to the door, where his Master was waiting, looking at him with something akin to pride in his eyes. Not pride for Leto’s accomplishments, of course, but pride that his own eye had been so discerning, that he had acquired such a wonderful piece of property.

Leto would never stop resenting being seen as an object, and though he acted the part of the sake of survival, that was very different than believing the lies the Magisters had tried to tell him since he had been weaned.

“You did quite well, my young wolf,” the man stroked his beard again, looking as pleased as the cat who’d eaten the canary. “Quite well. Of course, your efforts shall be rewarded. What do you desire… Leto, was it?”

Hearing his name on this man’s lips was like poison, but he swallowed it gladly, for he knew what came next.

“Yes. I understand you are a powerful man, Master. I request that you free my sister and mother from the possession of Magister Augustus,” he still did not meet those eyes, but he looked into that face, and saw a simple nod.

“Augustus will yield his slaves. I am a man of my word, after all, and I’ve already agreed to train his eldest son in exchange for you,” that smile, unnerving, never left Master Danarius’ lips. “What are a few more pieces of his chattel?”

He turned to the woman by his side, pale as death with eyes as fiercely blue behind a fringe of black hair, like the eye of a storm.”Hadriana, see to it that Augustus gives up the slaves. I won’t be seen by the public as a man who fails to keep his word. After all, pleasing the populace and keeping the occupied is part of our job as Magisters.”

That was some consolation to Leto, at least, no matter the man’s reasoning for his actions. He kept his word, and that… That meant that whatever happened next had not been in vain. Leto had set out with a goal, and he had accomplished that goal in earnest.

He would submit himself to his future willingly.

The door closed behind the woman named Hadriana with a soft click, leaving Leto alone with Danarius, who looked him over again with those shrewd grey eyes. “Adaptable, strong, wily….” those fingers eased through his whiskers absently. “Yes, you’ll do perfectly.”

Leto knew better than to ask just what it was he would be perfect for, but the glint in those eyes and the unsettling satisfaction in the man’s expression warned him that the answer was not one he would like.

“Idealistic, as well. He puts himself in front of other people without thought to the consequences,” Master Danarius laughed again. “Yes, wonderful. In the right circumstances, that is a most desirable trait in a trained bodyguard, an attack dog, if you will.”

His eyes flickered from that face to the door, a movement that did not go unmissed by Master Danarius’ sharp eyes. Laughing again, the man shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d be dead before you took two steps, and I’d really prefer not to lose another perfectly good experiment. I’ve been looking so long for the perfect test subject…”

Leto stayed where he was, setting his jaw, his stomach churning quite suddenly.

No.

He had to do this.

This was the deal, wasn’t it?

“Smart boy,” Master Danarius’ words mirrored those from before, and he smiled again. “As sson as this business with Agustus is finished, we will return to my estate, and then, my little Leto… Then we shall see what can be done about unleashing the wolf inside of you.”

The chill that settled in Leto’s soul did not go away for the rest of the time they remained at the arena.

 

***

 

If he had been cold in the arena, he was freezing now, stripped down to nothing and strapped in an odd sort of device against his will, a gag in his mouth. He could remember the look in that Hadriana woman’s eyes as she placed it there and crooned something to him mockingly about not wanting to bite off his pretty little tongue.

He was face up, for now, but he had noticed that the device could be rotated so that he faced the other direction, and he had also noticed the grates and grooves etched into the stone floor. This place was bleak, like a dungeon, and with that Magister’s promise of experiments… Those grooves were doubtless drains.

He’d heard of such things before, Magisters who experimented on their slaves, who used their magic to turn them into abominations.

Cold fear gripped his heart, but he did not struggle.

The time to struggle had long passed, the narrow window in which Danarius was the only obstacle between death and salvation had all but vanished, leaving him a victim to the Magister’s wiles.

“So quiet and obedient,” Danarius mused from somewhere above him, far beyond Leto’s line of sight, which encompassed nothing but the grey ceiling of this dungeon of a room.

Leto knew they were several stories above the pollution of the rest of the city, but it still felt as though he were trapped underground, as if time no longer had any meaning. “I doubt you’ll remain quiet for long, my pet,”

There were more footfalls to his left, and then the sound of wheels. A cart, Leto thought, with the creaking, and the way the wood bobbed and bumped against cobbles. Looming over him was a man, Tranquil, by the brand on his forehead. It was a fate worse than death to the Magisters, to be stripped of magic and made inhuman… Tranquility was worse than slavery, but their estimation.

And yet the Magisters were not above having the Tranquil in their employ, empty eyes staring… always staring…

“I apologize,” the voice, impassive, sent shivers down Leto’s spine unlike anything he had experienced that day, “this is going to be very painful.”

The man did not lie.

It started with his face.

The Tranquil pressed a needle to his skin, which stung, at first, but began to burn after a moment, crawling underneath the surface of his body with a white-hot heat that quickly began to penetrate his very soul. The artist was efficient, and seemed barely cognizant of the way he strained against his bonds, knuckles white as that needle trailed from the bottom of his lip down to his neck, searing his skin.

It didn’t abate.

Leto thought he would get used to the pain, that he would adjust to the prick of the needle and the fire that raced along underneath his skin, until every part of him was sweating and tears streamed from his eyes. The more ink seeped into his skin, the worse it felt, the more he couldn’t breath, the more he writhed in agony, desperate to escape his bonds.

“Please do not move,” a hand pressed down on his chest, and two more shapes to his left and right tightened his bonds, making movement all but impossible, chafing his wrists as that needle continued to send fire into his skin. “It will only hurt more if you struggle.”

Eventually, he could do nothing but scream, the gag muffling the noise as best it could, the sound echoing about the room anyway. It echoed in his own head, as well, and eventually dignity meant nothing, pride meant nothing, only the pain that shot up his arms as they prided open his hands to trace shapes on his palms, the pain that settled everywhere in his body until he was nothing but heat and agony and a raw voice that screamed for a mercy that would not be given.

_Mother…_

_Varania…_

Their faces seemed so distant now, slipping away from him, like dreams of a life he had once lived. He was Leto no longer: he was the pain, and the only thing that kept him conscious… The only thing that kept him breathing was some sense of obligation to see through to the end a goal he could no longer quite remember.

For a moment, the pain subsided, and he was allowed to breathe, his breaths labored, skin sticky with some substance that he could not identify as sweat or blood. All around him was the scent of iron and of fear, and he was left trembling for what felt like an eternity, struggling to hold onto his _Mother_ , onto _Varania_ , onto **_anything_** that wasn’t this room, and those damnably impassive eyes.

Then they flipped him over, and suddenly he remembered that there were two sides to his body, that the pain was not over, and his screams renewed. Still, he fought against darkness, against the oblivion beyond his present. If he lost himself, he couldn't be sure he would be able to wake up again, and if he passed into The Fade now… If he passed into The Fade now, the Maker would not receive his soul.

Perhaps he was already dead… Perhaps these were Demons…

The agony renewed and all thought was shattered beneath the weight of the ink on his back, of the pain as it seeped anew into his skin.

He wept openly until his tears turned to gasps of pain and his throat was too dry to scream any longer. Then he hung limp, ink still seeping into his skin, leaving him feeling hollow, empty, dreams of memories dancing before him like shadow until they, too, faded into white, leaving him with nothing but the heat of his skin, consuming him slowly from the inside out.

Or was it from the outside in?

Whether he had been here for a day or several years he did not know by the time the needle ceased and he was left, hanging. His muscles felt weak, and he trembled, gasping through his gag, too weak to move, to think. He could only feel, his entire body an open wound, raw and bleeding and burning.

“Turn him over. I want to see if he still lives.”

The voice elicited a strong emotion in him, though he wasn’t sure what the emotion was and didn’t have the strength to identify it. He only knew it meant something to him, or that it should, and that bit of familiarity was honestly relieving to him. He had… nothing.

There was nothing else but a gaping hole where his identity should have been.

Feeling himself being moved, he opened his eyes to blink wearily up at a bearded face, smiling at him in a way that made his skin crawl painfully… uncomfortably. “Excellent,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else, stroking his hand through the hair on his chin. “Most excellent. We will see if the experiment has been a success later. For now…”

The man turned away, those footfalls sounding on the flooring echoing in his head more loudly than his own labored breathing.

“Take him down, clean him up, and see that he recovers. And be careful not to damage the goods.”

A shiver traveled down his spine at those words and he knew with sudden certainty what he was, even if he no longer had a name.

“This is one investment I want to pay out.”

_Slave._


	2. Fenris

_“Memories, even bittersweet ones, are better than nothing_.”

**_-J.L. Armentrout_ **

 

His name was Fenris.

Or at least, that was what he was called.

Looking at his own reflection, he couldn't help but think that it suited him. There was something about him that was dangerous, or at the very least had the potential to be, beyond the bandages that covered his face and arms, reaching far beneath his clothing.

It may have been the stark contrast of his white hair against his dark skin (bleached by Lyrium, he had been told, during the process that had given him the tattoos he could not yet see), or perhaps it was his eyes, which were dark and hungry and haunted. Funny that he should think that, perhaps, but it certainly seemed to be true.

Fenris felt paranoid.

Twitchy.

He was not content with simply sitting here waiting for the healer, nor his Master, to come and tell him one thing or another, and the quiet, sometimes, was oppressive. There was nothing to do, nothing to occupy his mind with except the constant, nagging question of who he was, alone with the sound of occasional rain and the wind against the glass.

Thinking about who he was, sometimes, was more painful than the dull ache of his body.There was nothing but white-hot heat when he thought of it, a veil that couldn’t be pierced by simple concentration. In the weeks since he’d woken up alone, he’d resolved himself that there was no gain in looking backwards any longer, as hollow as his chest felt as a result.

Whoever he had been before, he was Fenris now.

And Fenris… Fenris was paranoid and impatient and in near constant pain. But he was also strong with sharp eyes, and he spoke two languages fluently and bits and pieces of others. He was certain he knew the weight of a blade in his hand, and he knew that pain was something he could endure because of his current state of being.

Whoever else he was would come to him in time, or so the healer said, even if his memories did not return his sense of self would. His master ( _Fenris was also a slave._ ) had said that his memories of his past returning was of no concern as long as he was able to function, to fight, to perform the duties the man had in mind for him…

As to what those duties were, Fenris could only guess.

He heard the footfalls before the man entered, and by now he recognized them as that of his Master, a man with chilling eyes and a pleasant smile that he wore like a thinly veiled threat. Formidable, for certain, but not invincible. He was a Magister, and like any other Magister, he bled if you stuck him with a sword.

“Ah, my little wolf is awake,” there was a wan chuckle as his Master stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. “And so very discontent, it seems.”

Those eyes slid over him again, not for the first time, before the man motioned for him to stand. “Strip, Fenris. It’s time to remove those bandages of yours, and I will not give away the privilege of being the first to see my own handiwork.”

Humiliation at being seen naked was the last thing from Fenris’ mind, honestly. There were worse things, he thought, better ways to humiliate someone than stripping them bare in a private room with no sexual intent. Those eyes unsettled him when they were turned on him with a mixture of avarice and pride, but he was eager to be free of his bandages and wasted no time following orders.

The going was slow, and the worst annoyance was how cold he was, with the draft from the window. He could almost ignore the way his Master’s eyes seemed to glow, and how his finger admiringly traced the lines that elegantly scrolled Fenris’ arms and torso. “Excellent. This was worth every copper I paid,” he continued to smile as he backed away, “even without the effect.”

“Effect?”

His own voice surprised him, deep, rough, and not at all what he had been expecting himself to sound like. His Master must have seen the surprise on his face, for he laughed, even though Fenris had spoke out of turn.

“Ah, my dear little Fenris,” he said, running a hand though Fenris’ hair in a way that made him freeze up, his skin tingling with…. something. “Soon you shall see that I have given you a gift beyond your wildest imaginings.”

It was then that Fenris noticed the man had placed some form of package on the nightstand he had been given. The room he was staying in was simple with a locked door, though Fenris did not know whether that was to keep him in or others out, but the lock’s presence told him that his Master had brought the package with him.

“Put what is in that package on and then meet me outside the door, my pet,” his Master said, backing away to take one more long look at him. “We have work to do.”

Fenris spent a moment staring at his hands and arms, looking down at his chest, stomach, and legs once his Master had left the room. The markings along his skin, the one that had caused him what seemed to be endless amounts of pain the last several weeks, were thin and white and scrolling. They reminded him of runic symbols that he had once seen etched along the faces of blades, somewhere.

His only consolation to losing his memories was retaining his knowledge of the world at large, at least. He understood what Enchantment was, though he no idea where he had learned it and why a slave would have the knowledge.

Wasting no more time, Fenris dressed in the clothing he had been given. Ornate, he noticed, frightening, black and made of leather that showed his skin. It was clearly meant to display his tattoos more than it was meant to be practical. The gauntlets were wicked and clawed, and felt strange on his fingers.

_No shoes._

The floor was cold, but he supposed he would have to get used to it. What alternative did he have? He had no idea who he was and nowhere to go. All he had was his Master, as much as it… As uncomfortable as the thought made him.

Slipping quietly from the room, Fenris found his master and an entourage of men in armor waiting for him. His eyes scanned them carefully, trying to gauge their intent, though he found nothing in their eyes save for the fact that they were apparently unnerved by him.

Was he really so intimidating?

If he did not have a solid answer, Fenris thought, he was about to find out.

The glint in his Master’s eye told him enough to know that he was probably not going to like whatever the next several hours were going to bring.

“Ah, there you are,” his Master spread his hands wide and smiled again, then motioned to the human men on either side of him. “Look at your replacement, gentleman.”

Fenris wished he wouldn't have said that as their wary looks suddenly turned hostile. Something told him that having a human’s hostility was not a good thing, but he met their eyes anyway, something stirring in the pit of his stomach.

_I will not be intimidated._

“One elf’s going to replace the lot of us? I mean no offense, Magister Danarius, but he’s a bit scrawny…”The accent was Ferelden, though Fenris wasn’t certain how he knew that.

Mercenaries then.

His Master just laughed, amused at his help, shaking his head back and forth slowly. “He is a bit lithe, yes, but whether or not he can replace all of you remains to be seen. Come, gentleman, no more idle chatter. We are wasting daylight hours.”

With that, the discussion was closed and Fenris set off down the corridor with a group of surly humans who hated him.

This could not end well.

 

***

 

Fenris had been right, though he had been mistaken about which party it would invariably end poorly for.

There were several things he hadn’t anticipated or considered, though he had well guessed by the time they’d exited the cool corridors into a muggy courtyard what his Master had planned for him and these men. No, Fenris told himself, there was no way he could have actually known these things, and guessing would have been impossible, even with his Master’s cryptic hints.

He’d only known that, when his Master had pressed a claymore into his hands, the weight of the blade felt familiar and that he would have no choice but to fight… or to die trying. Death was not an option, Fenris recalled thinking as the men circled him, four to one, their chainmail and plate armor drowned out by the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

_You have to live._

It was like a pulse, thrumming through his veins, his need for survival consuming him.

_Survival is the only option._

Everything was quiet, and Fenris felt only the presence of the men and his Master’s eyes on his back. There was nothing else but the tension, his heartbeat, and those eyes staring at him.

And then the first mercenary had lunged at him and Fenris had moved toward him, a growl pushing past his barred lips.

It wasn’t until he felt the man’s still-beating heart in his hand that he realized what he had done, or noticed the pale blue light flickering across his skin, using his tattoos like a highway of energy. Blue, like the sky on a cloudless day, the omen of bad things to come, blue like…

_Lyruim._

Another heartbeat had pulsed through them both, and Fenris’ could have sworn he felt his own heartbeat slow as the other man’s sped up. Another breath, those mud-brown eyes widened in horror, before the light went out of then when Fenris ** _squeezed_** , and the man breathed no more.

His companions had only looked on in horror as Fenris’ hand slid free of that chest and the man dropped to the ground like a stone.

After that, it had been easy to dispose of his Master’s help, to give into the thing that tugged at the basest part of his mind, responded to his instinct like a siren song. It was a thing that coiled through him, cold and primal, without guilt. It thought only of survival, and in survival there was no morality, no thought of what constituted as murder.

Now he sat, shaking from the shock of it while his Master crooned unwanted praise to him.

 _Glorious_ , he said.

_Brutal._

Fenris could only wonder what they had done to him. What manner of magic, of dark sorcery, had been performed on him to give him this ability, this instinct?

“You’ve been given a grander purpose,” his Master continued. “Though I suppose I understand why you seem so shaken. It was certainly unexpected,” he laughed again. “But you will get used to it in time, my fine wolf.”

He understood what his master said as an order, not an act of comfort, but a promise.

In order to survive, he would have to get used to it.

Perhaps it was that thought that stilled his breath and straightened his spine, his gaze level as his Master crooned more words of praise that he ignored. He hated the cooing, but if it kept him alive… If it kept him alive, he would take it.

He was suddenly aware that he didn’t even know why survival was so important to him. It would be easy to end whatever suffering the future held for him simply by ceasing to exist, but something tugged at his memory, the thought that perhaps someone out there wanted him to live, even if he could remember neither their face or voice.

Wasn’t it the plight of every slave to survive? To find meaning in a life that was ruled by another?

He had to survive.

His life was all he had, after all.

“Of course, Master,” Fenris said, raising his eyes ever so slightly to trace the shape of Magister Danarius’ face, memorizing him, knowing in his heart that he had just passed some test that this man had devised for him.

His Master - Danarius- beamed at him, as one would beam at a particularly well behaved animal. “Of course you will. I made sure that you were the best before I bought you, Fenris. Now… Come, we have much to discuss. You are my new bodyguard which means that you will be involved in my day to day life quite… intimately.”

The words chilled him a bit, more than he would be willing to verbally admit. His entire life was this man now, his days, his nights, and every moment in between. But what else was Fenris to do? He had nothing else and nowhere to go.

Looking over his shoulder only once, Fenris wondered who would clean up the bodies that had been left in his wake. Then he turned his full attention to his Master, walking after him, listening to the man talk about his usual schedule. He really was self-important, prideful in a way that few men were capable of fully expressing because their stations prevented the inflation of their ego while lack of power stayed their hands.

Magister Danarius had no such limitations, nor did he have many moral qualms, but some part of Fenris remembered that all Magisters were like this. They were blood mages who held truck with demons and had no problem killing innocents to further their ambitions, and now… Now he was involved with one of them.

_Intimately._

The word was one that hung with Fenris for a moment before he pushed it from his mind, focusing on the task before him. There was no room in his life for being upset or unsettled, and he resolved not to think of such things or it would affect his ability to do his job, and doing his job was tantamount to survival.

If he had to think about how dissatisfied he was, he would do it later in a place where his thoughts could not show upon his face.

If he had to think about the way it felt to have his hand in another man’s chest, how it felt to feel blood and flesh around him, heart pumping against his palm, he would do it in a place where the memory did not make his skin shiver, his tattoos burning with the memory.

These were not thoughts for the times when he was in the presence of his Master.

“And you will attend all political functions with me,” the man was explaining. “Whether I host or travel, I wish to have you at my side. After all, you are so very… intimidating.”

That, at least, was something he could agree with his Master about. He was intimidating, especially now with this newfound power, a power he was certain was given to him when the Lyrium of his tattoos was folded into his skin. He’d no idea how the ritual had worked, but it had, and now…

Whatever had been before, he was now Fenris,

“You will also need to meet my apprentices,” the man practically crooned. “You will be watching over me at all times, after all, even when we depart to have a bit of sport with those wretched Qunari.” The laughter that issued from his mouth then was particularly chilling, but Fenris paid it no heed. “If they keep their mages chained….”

He smiled a smile so shallow that it made Fenris avert his eyes from anywhere near the man’s general vicinity. It was a wicked smile, he thought. “Well, I certainly have quite a surprise for them.”

_Must everything be a game to the Magisters?_

When Master Danarius laughed again, Fenris had his answer. 


	3. Green

_“But who can remember pain, once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.”_

**_\-- Margaret Atwood_ **

 

If Fenris could see through the clawed gauntlets that he nearly always wore, he knew that his knuckles would be white with strain. His jaw, certainly, was already tight enough, clamped down hard on the words he wished to spit out.

_Wretched, miserable--_

The woman in question smiled haughtily and danced around him with a sashay of her hips, placing a hand on the side of his face and patting his cheek. “And that’s why you will not be getting your rest tonight, Fenris,” her unnervingly blue eyes slid over him, venomous, daring him to _speak out,_ to just say _something_... “You’re the only one who can prevent the assassins from entering.”

“And the regular guard will not be sufficient?” Fenris ensured his tone was level, clinical, giving away nothing of the rage that seethed just beneath the surface of his skin.

“They’re Antivan Crows!” Hadriana pressed her hand to her chest in mock horror, and he damned her jealousy a thousand times. “Would you let your Master face the Crows, Fenris?”

The urge to ** _snarl_** at her was nearly too great to repress, but he managed to by reminding himself what his Master would do to him if he dared speak out against Hadriana, his Master’s beloved apprentice. He did not relish the thought of the pain that Magister Danarius would put him through, and managed a reply with the memory of past pain as his motivation.

“Of course not, Lady Hadriana,” he said with a bow of his head. “I will do as you say.”

She touched his arm, patting repeatedly simply because she knew his flesh was sensitive, grinning when he flinched. “Good boy, Fenris. I’m sure you will be rewarded for your diligence.”

Any chance Hadriana could take to inflict misery upon him, she certainly seemed eager to seize.

He wanted to slam her against a wall, to knock her head against the stone until the ground beneath him ran red with her blood, but he was powerless. Fenris had to survive, and surviving meant enduring her torments, the way she would mock him.

“Growing fat, Fenris?” she’d say in a sing-song voice, taking away his food. “I’m afraid I must enforce a diet.”

“Oh, Fenris,” she’d beckon him, and upon her lips would be a sweetly savage smile. “I need you to run some errands for me on behalf of Danarius. If you fail me, I will take you to be disciplined.”

And then there was the _touching_.

Always with her constant _touching._

Fenris could stomach her jealousy, could survive losing a few meals or even ensure he could stay awake for an entire night just to spite her, but the one thing he hated the most…

Was the way she simply insisted upon touching him.

He could not stand the feeling of her hands against his skin, drawing from him something animal and instinctual, something that caused the markings on his skin to writhe and burn with blue light. One of these days she would go too far and he would kill her, earning Danarius’ wrath and his own termination.

So be it.

At least she would be dead.

“Is that all you wish of me, Milady?” He was careful not to meet her eyes, not to give her the satisfaction of knowing how deeply she had gotten to him; Fenris did not reveal his emotions easily, and had learned quickly that the best method of survival here was to remain utterly impassive.

Still, his face had an annoying habit of wanting to display his emotions for him, so he needed to be especially careful around Hadriana, who would use every muscle spasm against him. In front of her, he would show nothing, give her nothing which she could later twist into some shameful misdeed in front of his master.

“That’s all for now,” Hadriana waved her hand. “Now get out of my sight.”

He relished the dismissal.

Fenris prefered to be alone these days, increasingly. He enjoyed the solitude, the time alone with the thoughts that he did not allow himself to think otherwise. Obedient he may be, but he was also… Dissatisfied with his lot, and it was only when he was alone that he was able to think about anything other than his Master’s most present desire.

Stalking down the hall, Fenris slouched out of sight, knowing that Hadriana would check to see if he was patrolling for the next few hours, but eventually she would retire and he could find himself a secluded part of the manor where he could perhaps catch a few hours of sleep. That would certainly be better than nothing, he thought.

He couldn't really afford to be at his worst, not tonight and not ever.

Keeping his ears pricked as he walked, Fenris paid attention to the way that the people before him parted, avoiding him as if he were carrying some deadly contagion. He was used to it now, though a few years ago it had unnerved him that he was so universally avoided, even by the other slaves.

He understood it now.

He couldn't be trusted.

_Of course_ he couldn’t be trusted. He was the Master’s personal pet, his bodyguard, the one who poured expensive wine for his guests and was ever present and always watchful.

What if he told the Master something they had said, even unintentionally? What if he were ordered to spy on them? To report back anything seditious? Fenris couldn't blame them. He could hear their whispers, after all, he was not deaf, and he didn’t have time to waste on them anyway.

In reality, Master Danarius’ and Hadriana’s tasks took up nearly all of his time.

It struck him as he walked that he had not had time to eat something yet that day and thanked his good fortune (what little of it he did have, and it must be a fair amount for him to still be alive nearly three years after arriving here) that his current path would have him walk near the kitchens. At least he would not go hungry today, for Hadriana could not enforce some new rule on him about his diet as long as he was not within her sight.

It was the small things Fenris took strength from because the small things were all that he had.

 

***

 

If Hadriana were vexed at his victory over her, she gave no initial indication at her anger other than the dangerous flash in her eyes, one that promised retribution. Fenris paid it no mind, for she was being left behind, and soon he would not have to tolerate her for several glorious weeks.

He did not care if those weeks were weeks spent at war with the Qunari, Master Danarius was far too _important_ to see any true active combat, so it meant simply posturing in front of prisoners of war, as it usually did.

Of course, prisoners of war meant, to the Magisters, people to kill and others to release with threats. He had been to the Senate before, to the court of the Archon, and seen the Qunari prisoners, proud even in their shackles, paraded before the Senators for nothing more than sport.

He knew that, at Seheron, it would be much of the same. Danarius would go there to pass judgement and he would accompany his Master to mock the Qunari, as Danarius had explained before.

_“You, my wolf, mock their custom of chaining mages, of treating them as little more than tools,” he had laughed, as if the very idea of others ruling over mages were ridiculous. “I’ll show them their place, pet. They are the ones who should be shackled…”_

Beyond the borders of Tevinter, Fenris knew, The Circle served its purpose. There was no Black Divine distorting the rules of the Chantry, and magic was said to serve man, as the Maker had decreed it. He couldn’t imagine what it would look like to have mages locked in towers instead of ruling over the people.

He couldn’t imagine a world where blood magic was outlawed.

“We can waste no time in leaving,” Master Danarius’ voice drew him from his thoughts and he chanced a glance at the man’s face, finding him with a venomous smile on his lips, for once directed at Hadriana.

That smile brought Fenris no small amount of glee.

“You will watch the estate while we are gone, Hadriana. My little Fenris and I must leave as soon as dawn comes.”

It was unlike Master Danarius to do anything before dawn, begging the question of who, exactly, the Magister was trying to impress. If he was willing to rise early, Fenris could only assume this was an order from the Archon.

Who else could make him show initiative?

“O-of course, Lord Danarius,” Hadriana said with a bow of her head, more to avoid displaying her anger than out of any sort of reverence.

She would do anything to please him, including selling her body if that was what his Master required of her, but she was not happy with being treated as a mere stewardess. Fenris could see she was growing tired of being a simple apprentice. One day, she would want holdings of her own, but for now…

Well, for now, Danarius far outmatched her in power.

Even a fool could see that. After all, his Master could afford the lyrium brandings that lined Fenris skin, and was powerful enough to know how to activate them, to make Fenris himself into an effective and deadly weapon.

He wondered if the Qunari that his Master was attempting to mock understood as much.

“Thank you, my dear apprentice,” the man’s voice was never any less pleasant, his smile never faltering. “Fenris, come along.”

With some amount of satisfaction, Fenris realized that Hadriana would not be able to properly punish him until they returned home. If he saw her again for the rest of the day, he would be in the presence of his Master, and though his Master turned a blind eye to things she did behind his back he would not allow his property to be used by another in his direct line of sight.

Especially not his favorite _pet._

_“Do you wonder if they have emotions?”_

Fenris recalled the words he’d overheard while standing silently behind Danarius’ high-backed chair at a dinner where his Master had plied lips with wine and fine food. He could still remember the chilling laugh before Danarius’ response, the way that the man swirled the Aggregio in his glass before taking a long drink.

_“On some level, no doubt, but not like you or I. Fenris here is remarkably intelligent, a good pet, but not for a second do I think he is anything other than an animal in need of taming.”_

It was times like those that Fenris was remembered what he was, recalling the chilling sensation of his tattoos writhing as that animal thing inside of him took control. So often he gave into that instinct, and the idea that Danarius may not be entirely wrong about him was chilling, to say the least.

Still…

He was no animal.

No slave was.

It was just in their lot to do the best they could to survive.

_I envy the autonomy of the slaves who clean and cook._

“Now,” Danarius drawled, robes swirling about his ankles as they walked down the corridor,“We will have to be certain we are prepared, Fenris. Of course, you will be at my side, and you will be armed... “

The preparations were mind-numbingly dull, and Fenris did his best to pay attention and comment where he could. An entire regiment of guards from his personal employ, not mercenaries, to ensure loyalty, and cooks and slaves for the ship… These were among the things on his list, and Fenris was to gather some of them.

It would all be piled into a ship at Mithranous’ harbor and they would be off in the morning. Fenris would sleep with his Master inside his cabin, on a cot because Danarius would not allow him to be ruined by the flooring…

He thanked his master for the courtesy, as it was what would be expected of him and then dismissed himself to carry out his orders, careful to avoid Hadriana. Fenris did not want to meet her in the halls, seeking to spare himself from her shallow wrath, the rage of a woman too petty to admit openly that she was jealous of a slave.

Doubtless she would come up with some excuse or another as to why he needed to be “punished”.

_The dumb bitch doesn’t really want this,_ he thought bitterly.

_She has no idea what it’s like to be robbed of your personhood and stripped down to become nothing more than a mere animal._

And yet he did what his Master asked without question.

What choice did he have?

If he wanted to survive, there was no other recourse. He had to do as he was told, quickly and in the most efficient manner possibly, without questioning why or looking backwards. There was no other choice but to take his chances here, in the halls of Magister Danarius.

What else could he claim?

He had no family that he could remember, and no one would let a slave upon a ship…

Fenris shook himself of such thoughts, deciding it was best not to seethe with repressed anger while he was going about his business. Better to simply avoid Hadriana and his master’s wrath than mire about in misery for the rest of the day.

At least he was busy.

It didn’t take long for him to finish the tasks set before him, and soon he returned to his Master’s side, watching the man silently as he interacted with his paid staff. No Magister could avoid hiring a small army to protect their assets, and they were treated well. Better, at least, than the slaves, many of whom seemed content in their lot, not realizing there must be something beyond the stone walls of Danarius’ towers.

Others, he suspected, were more like him… Not content, but having no other choice, no other recourse, than to stay.

Rebellion meant death.

It meant losing even the small interactions that made life worthwhile.

There was no glory in rebellion and, in any case, Magisters all agreed that slaves were necessary.

_“Without us, what would they do with themselves? Being in servitude to us means they are better off! They’re fed, bathed, clothed! If they weren’t here, they’d be in those Alienages… The Imperium would never stand for such a thing!”_

Fenris had never seen an Alienage, and he was certain that the squalor was heart-wrenching, but at least those Elves had their freedom.

At least they were not forced to serve men so that they could only skirt alongside the outskirts of happiness or die in a futile fight for something you had to be born with to achieve.

“Finished?” Danarius asked once he had given his orders to the men to be at the docks, allocating others to remain behind and guard his estate from other “curious” Magisters. “Excellent. We will go to dine with Hadriana now, my pet. Come.”

Again they set off down the hall, and though Fenris very badly wanted to scoff at his Master’s melodrama, he decided his life was more important than his dignity.

It was the choice he made every day.

It was the choice they all made.

 

***

 

Fenris found something comforting about sailing.

It was such an enclosed space, but it was different than the estate, a gilded cage in the shape of a tower, high above the pollution of the city below.

Perhaps it was the fact that his Master was sea sick and spent much of his time in the cabin, leaving Fenris to his wiles. Or it may have been the fact that the air was cleaner, thick with the tang of salt, and even if the vaguely fishy smell was somewhat nauseating (Fenris had a strong distaste for fish) he could still see for miles beyond, nothing but water. It was liberating, in a way.

Danarius loomed in the back of his mind always, an oppressive reality, but it was easy to forget when he could spend his days on deck using his hands to assist the crew of the ship as he saw fit.

It was more surprising that they allowed a slave to help, but Fenris supposed that sailors were resourceful creatures who would rather make use of him then let him obstruct their duties.

At least this was not a slave vessel.

So it was that he quickly learned how to hoist sails, swab decks, check the winds, and speak like a sailor despite never having been near water in his life.

“How long to Seheron?” he asked one day when the shores of Tevinter had been far from sight for weeks.

The sailors were a hodgepodge of Rivani and Antivan and did not speak Tevene. As such, he spoke in the Trade Tongue now, and found his voice oddly and heavily accented, speaking to the man next to him as the sewed holes in old sails so that they could be used again before new ones were bought at port.

Magister Danarius, as powerful as he was, was not yet wealthy enough to own his own fleet, and so he was forced to charter ships like a common man, though Fenris assumed it was easier for him than most. This was a somewhat satisfying thought.

“Another two weeks at least, less if the wind favors us,” this man was Antivan, by his accent. “Eager to get off the boat, Serah?”

Sometimes, he wondered if they knew he was a slave, but if they did they did not press him for details.

“Not particularly,” he frowned, wondering what it would look like to see the green of a deep jungle in the distance. “I am looking forward to getting my work done on the island so that life can return to normal.”

That, at least, wasn’t a lie.

The sailor laughed, a jolly sound. “Ah, I know the feeling. I have a beautiful wife back home in Antiva, but I must venture out to pay for her wellbeing. Once this is over, I will return home to her at last.” He paused, as if considering the words he had just spoken. “And you, Serah? Do you have a lovely wife to speak of?”

“No,” Fenris’ frown sharpened and he thought of how absurd the idea of him with a wife was.

A woman? To greet him? It was amusing enough that he snorted and shook his head, flexing his fingers for a moment before he looked at the Antivan sailor. She wouldn't be able to touch him anyway. His tattoos still plagued him, three years after he had ended up in his Master’s possession.

“I wouldn't even know how to begin to go about wooing a woman.”

“Oh, my friend, you are missing out,” and, confirming every stereotype about indolent Antivans, the man grinned a pirate's smile and illustrated his point with verbose imagery. “Holding a woman in your arms is something that no man so inclined should miss the opportunity to do. A woman is warm, and supple, and attentive to your needs if you don’t neglect hers. I’m sure one day you’ll find someone to your liking.”

Fenris wasn’t even sure what his liking was, but for the sake of keeping his new ally, he agreed.

The week went on in such a manner, and his Master rarely showed up on deck to express his impatience. The men he’d brought with him were restless, and the sailors just laughed it off, especially the good-natured Captain. There were no ill omens, and the wind and weather were fair, so he believed they would reach Seheron in three or four days time.

And as certainly as he had said that, green appeared on the distant horizon the next day, growing closer each day after.

It wouldn't be long now, Fenris thought, before his Master was back to himself, smiling acidic smiles and threatening those in his employ.

He wasn’t looking forward to disembarking, but at least he had action to look forward to after weeks of idle inaction. Even Fenris, for all he had come to enjoy sailing, wanted to move on with his life.

On the horizon, the green drew ever closer. 

**Author's Note:**

> You'll have to forgive any canonical inconsistencies with this fanfiction. I've been in the fandom a few weeks and have done nothing more than beat Origins and DA2.


End file.
